


go, use your muscle (carve it out, work it, hustle)

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Gentle Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Subspace, reupload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "geralt,talk to me."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 9
Kudos: 554





	go, use your muscle (carve it out, work it, hustle)

**Author's Note:**

> another reupload.
> 
> title from just dance by lady gaga
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

“Darling, _please,”_

And,

The air is _so fucking thick,_

And Jaskier’s breathing in sheer _sex_ as Geralt _grinds_ down against him, _agonizingly_ slow,

And,

It’s been _hours_ of this,

And his throat is _so fucking sore,_

Voice _beyond_ shot,

Because Geralt is a _greedy bastard,_

And he loves it when Jaskier sings _just_ for him,

So it’s been _hours_ of _taunting;_ of slow, strong fingers pressing into him, worrying at the spot inside him that makes him see _stars,_

 _Hours_ of Jaskier filling the silence _alone,_

And,

He splays his hands over Geralt’s damp, heaving chest, and everything is _dewy_ in the extravagant bedchamber in the estate of the current Lordling Yennefer’s made her personal _servant,_

And Jaskier has to admit that knowing the sorceress _does_ come with some - _perks,_

Because the room is _fine_ , so fine, and the bed is _huge_ , covered in silk sheets and so many pillows, and everything is _sex_ and _firelight,_ and it’s been weeks since they’ve been able to _properly_ lose themselves in one another,

_And,_

Jaskier _groans_ hoarsely as Geralt noses over his throat, as he rolls his hips, grinds down against him, and he _refuses_ to fuck Jaskier the way he needs, refuses to do anything but rut against him, and they’re _dripping_ in _sweat_ and Jaskier’s so hard it _hurts,_

And the Witcher is _silent_ , nonverbal, _primal,_

 _Which is_ \- beyond _anything_ , truly,

But Jaskier is _desperate,_

Desperate to _feel_ the burr of _that voice,_

And he _knows_ Geralt knows it,

Knows he’s _waiting for -_

“Geralt, _talk to me_ ,” and,

“Darling, _please_ , say something, _anything_ ,” and,

“I _need_ to _hear you,_ ” 

And,

Geralt drags his tongue up over the sweaty column of Jaskier’s throat, 

And he slides a hand down one of Jaskier’s shaking thighs,

Shushes him with a _deep,_ rolling _growl_ when Jaskier bites his lip and _whimpers,_

And,

_Finally,_

Fucking _finally,_

Geralt murmurs, “ _little lark_ ,” and,

It _reverberates_ through Jaskier’s fucking _bones,_ turns his marrow as gold as the eyes that gaze at him like they’re getting _drunk_ on him,

And he’s got his legs around Geralt’s waist and he’s sore all over and his voice is _shot_ but he _moans_ with it, moans in sheer _relief,_ and Geralt’s gold eyes are so fucking _greedy_ as they scrape over his face, as he rolls his hips, ruts into the slick hollow of Jaskier’s hip,

As he _starts to -_

To _talk,_

Says shit like,

“The _smell_ of you, Jaskier, _fuck_ ,” and,

“You smell like _mine_ ,” and,

“The way you _feel._.. Nothing in the _world_ like the way you feel,” and,

“You sing _so well_ for me, little lark,” and,

Jaskier’s trembling _proper_ now, as Geralt drags his open mouth over his ribs, as he noses through the hair under his arm, as he catches a nipple between his teeth and sucks until Jaskier’s _writhing_ on the sheets,

The damp, _sweat-soaked_ sheets,

And Geralt _growls,_

And the sound makes Jaskier’s poor, _abused_ cock jump,

Makes his heart go two, three, four, _five_ times as fast,

The heart that sings _all_ for _one Geralt of Rivia,_

And then Geralt’s pressing a small, cool vial into Jaskier’s palm, is saying, “use _enough_ this time, little lark,” and,

Jaskier thinks he’s about to, just, _die,_

As he pours oil over Geralt’s cock, bigger than his own, thicker, and Geralt makes a sound of approval when he practically uses the _entire fucking vial_ to get him slick,

_Which,_

Is for the _best,_

Because it still burns _so_ fine when Geralt starts to sink into him, after _hours_ of just, dragging every sound _imaginable_ from Jaskier’s aching chest, and,

Geralt sinks into him, fills him up until Jaskier feels him in his _throat,_

And everything is amber firelight and _sweat_ and _sex_ ,

And Jaskier is falling into some new kind of _softness_ , some place he’s never been, as Geralt slides his arms around him, as Geralt keeps - _keeps fucking talking,_

Says,

 _“Jaskier,_ ” like it’s a fucking hymn, _right_ against Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier _keens,_ a _shattered-glass,_ hurting, _pleading_ kind of sound, one Geralt swallows down as his wicked, thunder-clutching tongue curls around Jaskier’s, and,

“ _I have you,_ little lark, hold on,” he breathes, and his hips start to pump and Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s shoulders, _sweat-slick,_ scarred, and,

“You feel like _silk,_ Jaskier, you’re so _tight,_ take me _so well_ ,” and the words just, _dig_ through Jaskier, _burrow_ into his belly, _rip_ up his spine, and his eyes _burn_ as he smears his cheek against Geralt’s, as time goes _sideways,_ as all he knows narrows down to the way Geralt _feels_ inside him, both his _voice_ and his _cock,_

_And,_

Geralt slides a _devoted_ , gentle hand over Jaskier’s wet brow, sweeps his hair back,

Ghosts his lips over Jaskier’s until Jaskier’s desperate tongue unfurls to _beg_ for more, _anything,_ everything, and Geralt _gives it_ , gives it as he drags Jaskier’s mouth open with a thumb on his chin, _and,_

A low, _possessive,_ praise-laden _burr_ poured out over Jaskier’s tongue shoots _right_ down to his aching cock,

And when Geralt finally hitches his thighs back,

When Geralt starts to finally fuck into him _proper,_

Jaskier _can’t stop_ the flood of _sound_ that lances out from his sore, _hurting_ throat,

 _Hoarse_ keens,

Ragged, _tearing_ moans,

Broken cries of Geralt’s name, holier than _honeywine_ on his lips,

And Geralt’s chest is _vibrating_ with a constant _growl_ , a thing that has Jaskier feeling _frantic_ , feeling just this side of _inhuman_ , and he clings to Geralt as his voice threatens to _shatter_ him, as he fucks into Jaskier _proper,_ hard enough he’ll feel it whenever he moves, _and,_

“Been _dreaming_ of the _taste of you_ ,” the Witcher purrs, sounding as _gone_ as Jaskier feels, and,

“You taste sweeter than _spun sugar_ , Jaskier, _fuck_ ,” and,

Jaskier _shouts_ with it, when Geralt wraps a calloused hand around his cock, the cock he’s not touched in _hours_ , and Jaskier’s only vaguely aware of the way Geralt’s voice soothes him through it as he _falls apart_ , as his vision goes _black_ and white heat splashes over his stomach, paints his chest,

_And,_

When he rises out of the brief, _gold-touched_ darkness,

Geralt’s dragging his tongue through the pearly seed on his skin, is licking Jaskier _clean_ as he grips his hips in brutal hands, as he chases his own release in the hot, _tight_ clutch of Jaskier’s body, and,

He _feels it_ when Geralt finds it, when he comes undone with a _snarling_ moan of Jaskier’s name, the name he buries _right_ against Jaskier’s _sweaty_ , spunk-coated belly, 

And,

Jaskier is _floating_ as Geralt pants _rough_ and low against him, hands gripping his hips, cock going soft inside him, and if he could let Geralt live here, like this, he would,

And the Witcher drags his panting mouth over Jaskier’s ribs, over his chest, across his collarbone; he licks at the dew gathering in the hollow of Jaskier’s throat - his aching, burning throat - and his voice is _beyond shot_ , so he doesn’t even _try_ to speak as Geralt _pours_ over him, 

As Geralt licks at his pulse,

As he noses under his arm, 

As he gently pulls out of the tight clutch of Jaskier’s body to sink low, to gather up any of Jaskier’s spend he’s missed on a greedy, _wanting_ tongue,

As he nuzzles at the crease of Jaskier’s groin,

And,

“The _smell_ of you,” Geralt breathes, _right_ against the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, and he’s so sore that he’ll be feeling Geralt every time he even fucking _twitches_ , “when you’re _full of me._.. when I’ve _buried_ myself in you,” and,

Jaskier _groans_ , slings an arm over his red-rimmed eyes,

Croaks a weak, “that is _so_ unfair,”

And Geralt’s low chuckle shoots right to his core, curls up there, red-hot as the embers in the dying fire,

“I won’t be able to sing for a _week,_ ” Jaskier rasps, and then Geralt’s there, is gathering him up against his chest, and they’re sweaty and filthy, but all Jaskier can focus on is the way Geralt holds him, the way he slides a hand through his hair, the way he kisses over his brow, tangles their legs together,

“You needed a rest,” Geralt mutters lowly, and he pulls Jaskier in _tight_ as Jaskier huffs a feeble, _fucked-out_ laugh, as he noses up under Geralt’s jaw and presses in as close as he _possibly_ can, hooking one leg around the Witcher’s, 

“Does this count as a _rest?_ Your private little concerts?”

And Geralt _hums_ , hums in his gut as he mouths over Jaskier's cheekbone, as he nuzzles at his ear, and he pins Jaskier to his chest with iron-strong arms when it sends a shudder _ripping_ down the bard's soaked spine, 

“A rest from people _looking_ at you,” the Witcher purrs, and Jaskier _glows_ with it, with the _possessiveness_ of it, 

_“Ah,_ that’s what it is. Greedy bastard,”

“When it comes to _you,”_

“I guess I’ll allow it,” Jaskier says, and Geralt's _watching_ him speak, looks absolutely _fixated_ on the way his lips move, and then the Witcher is nuzzling against them, a wolfish, barely-human kind of kiss, the kind of kiss that has Jaskier grinning and melting down to nothing but _cotton_ inside, 

And he won’t be able to sing for a _week,_

At least,

Not for _anyone_ but _one Geralt of Rivia,_

Which, 

_Really,_

Suits him _just fine,_


End file.
